


Signs

by SaltyMia



Series: Undoing [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Held Down, M/M, Marking, Masochism, Mourning, Sadism, Submission, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltyMia/pseuds/SaltyMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right from the beginning, all signs had always pointed in one direction only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sign One

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before “Unleash”.

It’s the anniversary of her death.

It’s the anniversary of Athos having his wife killed.

Athos has been avoiding Athos and Porthos as much as he can all day, just enough interaction to get the job done, and he knows he’s been unusually quiet. Moody. Ignoring their tries at conversation, distraction, offers of listening, all well-meaning and friendly, but they don’t know, and they wouldn’t be so friendly or make any offers if they knew he murdered his wife.

He’d had to.

He knows it, and still he feels guilt. Still, he feels love; a twisted, angry kind of love. Claws like hooks in his heart, forever tethering him to a ghost; Milady taking revenge from the grave.

He doesn’t want to see anyone. His head is filled with Milady and conflicting thoughts, longing and half-hearted visions of impossible revenge, of summer days and blue flowers, of murder and cold-blooded deception, and he can’t figure out how to stop loving her even after all she has done to him, after all the lies, the betrayal. Even after her death.

And at the same time, he hates her, too.

He really isn’t in the mood for talking.

At the first possible moment he withdrew, right after debriefing with the Captain, and he hasn’t been sitting on his cot for long, Milady’s necklace tight in his grip, when someone knocks on his door and calls for him.

It’s Aramis, and he seems to take Athos’ answering silence for an invitation, because after a polite moment of waiting he comes in and closes the door behind him, but at Athos’ “Stop!” he does stop, and doesn’t come closer. Athos doesn’t even know if his order was related to Aramis coming closer, or a demand not to talk to him, or something else entirely. Stop thinking about it. Stop noticing. Stop trying to help. Stop prying.

Only that’s unfair. Porthos and Aramis have been nothing but quietly supportive and non-judgmentally offering their company, today. It’s obvious they agreed on sending one of them to make offers again, to offer talking about what’s on Athos’ mind, to go visit the tavern, to play cards. Athos will decline.

Aramis sounds tentative when he starts “Athos, you’ve been - ,“ and trails off mid-sentence, changes tactics, asks “are you alright?” instead, and Athos lets out a quickly aborted laugh, ugly, against his will. It’s the anniversary of Milady’s death, and nothing is alright.

Athos hasn’t even lit a candle before he sat down on the edge of his cot, so the only light is coming from the small window high up on his wall, the evening sun throwing a washed-out murky light amid the shadows dancing in his room, a small speck of light that doesn’t stand a chance of reaching the corners of his dark room. 

Athos doesn’t want Aramis here. He can’t deal with anyone but himself right now, and even he himself is more than he can stand, really. He’s too agitated, too restless, he feels strung too tight, and he knows he won’t be safe to be around until he stops feeling like he’ll snap any minute.

“You should leave,” Athos says, grave, honest advice, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Aramis keeps asking what’s wrong, keeps offering his help.

Aramis hesitates; maybe he waits for Athos to change his mind, to ask Aramis to stay and to share his thoughts. Aramis is like that. He shares his thoughts and finds solace in sharing, like he finds absolution in church, in confessing his sins.

But Athos won’t. He won’t confess his sins, and he won’t tell anyone what troubles him, and he won’t find peace no matter what he does. Milady has seen to that. He won’t even turn his head to look at Aramis, and instead keeps his eyes fixed on his fist, clenching it around the token as if by squeezing it he could squish his churning thoughts and feelings along with it.

Athos hears Aramis finally turning to leave, but at the door he hesitates again and says, “If you change your mind and do want to talk about it, we’ll be there to listen,“ and Athos takes a deep breath, reigning himself in, still staring at his fist as if he can see through it, and he holds the token so tightly the edges bite into the palm of his hand, but he doesn’t unclench, doesn’t let go – wonders if he’ll ever be able to let her go, and represses that thought immediately, viciously – and sounds irritable even to his own ears when he grunts out, “I won’t,” and repeats, “Leave,” but Aramis, damn him, takes a couple of steps closer again, asks, “are you sure? If you need anything, anything at all, I could help –“ 

“No one and nothing can help!” Athos cuts him off, still holding his temper, but feeling precariously close to the edge now, and he’s about to tell Aramis again, for the third time, to leave him alone, but when he looks up and sees Aramis standing in the middle of his room, body leaned towards Athos, open and soft in the dim light, eyes wide and dark, what comes out of his mouth is, “Kneel!”

Aramis does.

He keeps eye contact and kneels down in a single fluid motion, one knee to the ground, not even a trace of hesitation now in kneeling down before Athos as if he were Aramis’ king, and Athos’ surprise is drowned out by the sudden rush of blood in his ears, the way his chest tightens, the curious thrill that runs through him and makes his skin tingle.

That makes his fists clench even tighter.

Athos stands up and suppresses a shiver when Aramis’ eyes continue to hold his, and Aramis looks up at him, an ocean of calm, of acceptance, of readiness, though Athos has no idea for what. 

Athos can see that Aramis means it. ‘Anything’ to help.

But he can’t help Athos. Athos doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want help, and doesn’t even know what even _would_ help, because if nothing has worked so far, and if not even the effects of alcohol are enough to completely make him forget, to make him better, then surely nothing else ever will. 

And how could Aramis help, or even understand, when Athos doesn’t even understand himself? The irritation in Athos picks up again, mounts, and though he know Aramis just wants to help, in Athos’ current mindset that offer feels presumptuous. It feels insulting. 

As if it were that easy to silence Athos’ demons. As if it were easy or even possible to fix Athos. To not only silence his demons, but to make them fade away. His demons all look like Milady, red-lips, carefree and laughing with him turning into laughing _at him_ , because Athos may now know deception when he sees it, but he learned it the hard way and he leaned it too late, and now his life is a joke and he loves and hates a ghost, and Athos doesn’t know how it ended up with her still winning in the end, and taking everything from him as she went. 

No, his demons are here to stay and it’s too late to fix anything.

Athos walks a half-circle around Aramis, lays a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, and Aramis doesn’t even tense up. He stays warm and solid and relaxed under Athos’ hand. 

Athos presses down until Aramis yields and kneels down properly, both knees on the ground, legs folded. Athos bends close to Aramis’ ear, and there’s an emotion he can’t name in the bitter mix of derision and defeat in his voice when he asks, “You don’t want to leave?" And, “You want to help?”, and when Aramis tries to answer, he gets as far as “Anything you – “ before Athos cuts him off again, tone hard and decisive:

“Fine. Stay. Don’t move.”

He walks to the door himself, fetches his hat and coat on the way, and says, “I’m leaving.”

-

Athos goes to the tavern and drinks.

And drinks.

The weight of Milady’s necklace burns in his pocket, and he refuses to reach in and touch it, even though every fiber of his being yearns for the contact.

He keeps drinking.

-

When he gets back in the early hours of morning, one, maybe two hours until dawn, his limbs are pleasantly heavy and the drink has lulled his mind into something approaching calm.

He has all but forgotten about Aramis.

He’d been certain Aramis would have left by now. It had taken Athos a few drinks to work at forgetting the earlier scene, at convincing himself there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about it, and in the end nothing but a vague feeling of unfulfilled anticipation, a muffled impression of loaded tension, had remained.

Aramis is still kneeling on his floor when Athos enters while already working on getting out of his boots. It’s like Aramis has fallen asleep kneeling, and Athos almost trips over him in the dark, but holds onto him at the last moment to keep from falling over, and when Athos’ eyes have almost managed to focus on the mildly startled, dreamy look in Aramis’ eyes, he puts his weight down wrong on his half-off boot and his leg buckles. His balance is off and there’s no way to catch the fall, so they end up tipping and falling over after all, with a loud crash in the silence of the night, Athos’ knee landing unfavourably on Aramis’ stomach and punching a breathy sound out of Aramis before Athos shifts to lean more over Aramis than on him. 

“You’re still here,” Athos whispers, and his speech isn’t half as slurred as it should be, he thinks, with all the alcohol he consumed.

“You’re back,” Aramis answers, just as quiet, and Athos’ hands are on Aramis’ shoulders, where he caught himself, part of his right hand rests on bare skin where Aramis’ garments have been pulled askew. 

Aramis’ skin is cold.

The night isn’t too cold, Athos thinks, dizzy from the sudden change in position, but it isn’t warm, either, and everything tells him that Aramis hasn’t been moving all night, has been right here in the chilly room, kneeling, and Athos had asked for that, yes, but Aramis had done it without even questioning the order, had done it and waited for Athos to come back, and Athos feels warm, warm, warm, body heated by the alcohol, blood thrumming with the sudden adrenaline from being surprised by Aramis waiting in the dark, and everything relating to the incident earlier, everything he’d tried to suppress by drinking more and more, everything comes rushing back. 

Athos’ head won’t stop spinning.

Aramis makes little, inarticulate sounds, like stifled moans. Athos assumes he must be in pain from kneeling all this time, and now the blood is rushing back properly into his legs. Aramis must be feeling pins and needles all over, and the impact from Athos knee on top of that must make things worse. Aramis’ faint noises and his attempts at regulating his breathing make Athos’ heart race all over again, make him feel like his heart skipped a beat, and he smoothes his hands over Aramis in an absentminded motion, trying to feel Aramis to make up not being able to properly see him in the dark, because for some reason it’s imminently important that he take in everything about this, drink in every single one of Aramis’ reactions.

He works Aramis’ tunic loose and slips his hands under it. Even the skin beneath Aramis’ garments is cooler that Athos’ own heated skin, and Athos hunches down more, leans closer to where Aramis lies with his head tilted back, breathing very strained, and Athos buries his face in Aramis’ neck and presses his heated cheeks to Aramis cool skin. Athos breathes in deeply while his hands resume their lazy exploration, and even in Athos’ muddled mind it’s blatantly clear that he’s not doing this merely to warm Aramis up. This is something else entirely. 

Aramis smells good, feels good, feels nothing like Milady; this is _Aramis_ ; There’s no teasing laughter, no scent of jasmine, and solid muslcles and the occasional scar instead of softness and smooth skin. This is Aramis, and he’s not gone. He’s still here, and he _waited_.

Athos digs his fingers into the flesh over Aramis’ ribs on his chest, hard, and then pulls them down to his stomach. He repeats the motion again on Aramis’ sides, digs in and pulls down hard until he reaches the waist where there’s more give, where it’s easier and safer to dig deeper, and Aramis’ breath hitches, and he turns his head towards where Athos’ head is buried between his neck and shoulder. Not to push him away; Aramis nudges his head against Athos’ like a horse greeting its companion with a gentle bump of its head, happy, inviting, and Athos –

bites down hard and fast right into the flesh above the collar bone and doesn’t let go, not even when he hears Aramis hands claw at the wooden boards underneath him, searching for purchase and finding none. Athos runs his tongue along the captured flesh between his teeth and tastes salt and no blood at all, but feels the thrumming of Aramis' pulse between his teeth. He bites down harder and sucks until a metallic taste fills his mouth and Aramis is keening under him and twitching, arching up as much as he can with Athos bearing down on him, and Aramis’ chest brushes against Athos’ own with every frantic breath he takes.

When Athos opens his jaw slowly, in increments, Aramis’ hands stop scrabbling at the floor and instead come up to take hold of Athos in return, though Aramis’ fingers don’t dig into Athos’ skin at all. They just carefully take hold of his clothing and hold on, pull it towards Aramis. Athos can feel the uneven pull of the fabrics all over his shoulders and back, and it almost feels like a hug.

Aramis is trembling, and Athos feels the fine tremors that run all over his body everywhere he’s in contact with Aramis.

Athos wants to bite him again, wants to press him down harder, dig his fingers in with even more force. He wants to leave deep bruises on Aramis’ skin. 

He wants to make Aramis bleed.

He tears himself away at the thought, alarmed by the demanding, greedy urge. Shocked into motion. He stands up, too fast, way too fast, and the room tilts and he sways, but Athos stays upright this time – he’s lost one boot completely now, but still wears the other – and staggers to his cot.

“Leave”, he says.

Aramis does.


	2. Sign two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Athos a while to find out what really happened that night.

Athos’ next day starts like any day after a night of drinking does.

He’s used to the nausea, to the pulsating headache and the sensibility to light and noise that nights of overindulgence bring him. Athos is prepared to endure the resulting pain of a night of heavy drinking. He will readily accept them any day for the temporary relief the drink can provide.

He’s never been good with anniversaries, and there are none so bad as the one of Milady’s death - it’s no wonder he drank so much. It’s no wonder he doesn’t feel well.

It’s a wonder he doesn’t feel worse.

Dunking his head in the bucket of cold water he keeps in the corner of his room helps him wake up and gather his bearings, even though the water does nothing to help the pressure in Athos’ head, like his brains are too large for his skull. Moving his head makes bright lightning flash behind his eyes, and Athos does his best to stoically breathe through the stabbing pain while he gets dressed.

He knows how to deal with this.  
He knows how to function.  
He can handle drinking.

Were Athos a man of faith, he’d thank the lord for the mandatory days off that the officially labeled ‘musketeer training days’ really are, and he’d thank him for this day being one of them. Were he a praying man, he would ask god to spare Athos any sudden surprise missions today. Athos is certain he could handle whatever mission may come up even in his current state, because he’s been on missions in worse condition before, but he would welcome nothing more than a reprieve from anything involving activity today.

Leaving his room to join the other musketeers at the table for a morning meal is activity enough, and his head dreads the noise of the courtyard as much as his stomach dreads the thought of food being forced down; the bustling activity of his fellow musketeers tend to grate on his nerves on days like this.

Even when he’s fully clothed and moving, Athos can’t shake the heavy feeling in his limbs. A muscle-deep relaxation that has settled deep within, like his body isn’t quite ready to let go of sleep just yet.  
The night at the tavern must have done him more good than he’d hoped it would, because he feels better than he has in a long time, despite his tender head, despite the feeling that his brain got severely bruised.

The thought of bruising makes Athos falter on his way to the kitchen, but whatever thought or memory caused the reaction is gone before he can grasp it.

It takes him half the morning before he figures out that there’s something different about this morning, and before he manages to pinpoint the unusual sensation and figures out what it is that’s lurking beneath the familiar discomfort of a night out:

Athos feels calm, and it’s not the sort of calm lingering remnants of sleep could explain. It’s a thorough, balanced kind of calm. He feels in control. Athos hasn’t felt this calm, this _controlled_ , in weeks. In months. 

He hasn’t felt this calm since before he killed his wife.

The heavy, sated feeling in his limbs that comes with it reminds Athos of contentment.

 

-

 

Athos remembers.

He’s just returned to his room after leaving his breakfast mostly unfinished, as he suddenly remembers. He entered his room last night and Aramis was there. Athos shakes his head to clear it and revises the thought, because that can’t have happened; it must have been part of a dream. What wasn’t a dream is the other thing he extracts from the sudden onslaught of jumbled images flooding his mind:

Aramis definitely came to see him before Athos went out last night, and Athos left him right there on the ground in the middle of the room, kneeling.

Athos stands in the door for no more than a heartbeat, then turns and walks right out of his room again, intent on finding Aramis, even though he doesn’t know what he’ll do once he’s found him. However strange and incomplete the memories of last night taste, he knows he behaved in a way he ought to apologize for. They’re friends. They’re brothers. There shouldn’t be any needless animosity between Aramis and him, and at the very least he needs to find out if Aramis is angry with Athos. 

He doesn’t know what he was thinking – only that he probably wasn’t thinking at all. He was rude and inappropriate; he can own up to that.

Porthos’ booming laugh reveals his position before he’s in Athos’ sight, and if he can hear Porthos, then Aramis can’t be far. Just as anticipated, the next words he hears are Aramis’, followed by more laughter, whole-hearted. Everyone seems to be in good spirits.

Athos’ head is still pounding.

He slows down and comes to a complete standstill before he rounds the final corner. There are more memories now, and half of them make no sense. Half of them are connected to his first shard of memory, the one from his dream, the one where Aramis was still in Athos’ room when Athos returned from the tavern, but he can’t see the whole picture; the reflection is broken, and all he can see are the splinters.

It must have been a dream, because surely Aramis hadn’t stayed in Athos’ room until his return so much later at night. And yet, Athos’ mind shows him blurry pictures and fleeting impressions of –

something.

A body, lying under his own. Aramis in a dark room.

His warm fingers on cold skin.

Athos leans on the wall and tries to concentrate and block out the noise from the others around the corner, playing cards from what he can tell.

He left Aramis in his room last night, that much he’s sure of, but there had still been more light coming in through the window when he’d gone out, lighter than the darkness of those fragmented memories. 

The more Athos thinks about it, the more he doubts his own mind. He did leave Aramis in his room, didn’t he? Was that part of his dream, too? Athos’ memories are vague and murky, and he’s still nauseous. Sorting through the mess of jumbled shards brings more confusion than clarity; a patchwork of absurd dreams of –

something.

Athos’ wants to get a clear view of what happened, but it feels like his mind shies away from the memories at the same time. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. No matter how hard he tries, he remembers only parts of his dream, part of what happened, nothing solid, nothing tangible, and nothing reliable. Every memory is as fleeting as fine morning mist, fraying and dissolving as soon as his mind shines a light on them and tries to get them into focus.

Athos breathes out hard, clenches his teeth and turns around again, goes back to his room. So much for clarity and control, he thinks, bitter. It had been nice while it lasted, but now confusion and frustration overwhelm the heavy calm he’d enjoyed.

He can’t think straight, can’t make sense of his thoughts, and nothing will come of talking to Aramis like this anyway, not when Athos isn’t even sure what to say. And worse: when he’s not certain what was real or imagined. 

He’ll give himself more time to think. At any rate, he should probably try to get Aramis alone whenever he’s ready to talk, instead of confronting him when he’s surrounded by other people. Whatever conversation will follow, it will not be one meant for prying ears and nosy bystanders. If Aramis took offense at Athos’ behavior, or if he harbors other negative feelings towards him, then Athos revealing private affairs out in the open would only serve to make matters worse.

 

-

 

Sometime later Porthos knocks on Athos’ door, asking if Athos wants to join him “and the others” for a ride through the woods.

Athos doesn’t answer, and after a second knock gets ignored as well, Porthos shouts “You know where to find us if you change your mind,” and leaves.

Athos stays in his room all day and all night. At the end of the day he still hasn’t figured out what really happened last night and what didn’t, but by then he’s tentatively certain that most of it was nothing but a dream.

The collection of memories and vague impressions has grown and built a picture of him holding himself up over someone else, over _Aramis_. A picture of himself pressing down on a body, on Aramis’ body, and holding it still with more force than necessary, with his fingers digging into someone, into _Aramis_ , who is shivering, trembling, but not fighting Athos’ hold in the least. As if conjuring up those images weren’t enough, Athos’ not only has to deal with his subconscious creating these twisted thoughts, but he also has to deal with the way his body responds to them.

He runs his tongue over this teeth, catching another remnant of his dream; he remembers biting down, remembers it in vivid detain, remembers his jaw clamped shut over solid muscle, not letting up, not letting go, remembers the unique taste of copper in his mouth.

He ignores his excitement and tries to repress his guilty thoughts, his treacherous mind.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

 

-

 

The next morning Athos’ head feels better and the nausea is gone.

The turmoil in his mind remains the same, though, and entering the courtyard and staying to watch Aramis train a new recruit is not much of a distraction. He goes to stand with some of the others who are watching from the sidelines, leans against the other side of the column Porthos is propped up against.

“Did you have a good ride yesterday?” he asks.

Porthos inclines his head, laughs at the pair fighting, shouts, “Mind your left flank!” before replying to Athos. 

“It was good,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. Porthos waits a beat before he adds in a more hushed tone, “You feeling better?”

Athos nods, says, “I am, thank you,” and wonders if it’s true as he turns his attention to Aramis and the new recruit again.

Anything would have been better than watching Aramis in hand-to-hand combat, Athos is sure. Watching other people than Aramis, for one. Watching other people or Aramis compete at something else would be good, too, like sparring. Weapons training would have been best, especially seeing how that’s Aramis favorite subject, but hand-to-hand combat brings sights and sounds with it that aren’t helping Athos repress or avert the train of thought that won’t stop haunting him.

Grappling and blocking and punching and the dull smack of hard impact on leather and skin accompany the sound of gravel crunching beneath boots. Something in Athos’ blood sings at the sound of combat, and he can’t let the memories of that night go; he’s starting to not even _want_ to let them go anymore, not the way he did late last night when they kept him awake, when he tried in vain to erase them, drown them, extinguish them.

It’s not like anyone will ever know, he reasons. This must be a hiccup, something that will fade over time. It’s not that bad. Everyone has stray thoughts. They’re not as bad as they had first seemed. They’ll go away on their own eventually.

When Aramis lands another hit, Athos wonders if Aramis bruises easily, and if training tends to leave bruises on him. He wonders about the bruise he left in his dream last night when he bit high up on Aramis’ shoulder, at the base of his neck, and about the way the Aramis in his dream was so mellow when Athos came back from the tavern, so very unlike Aramis in combat, defensive and active now instead of pliant and still.

He thinks about how the Aramis in his dream hadn’t seemed to mind Athos hurting him. 

He lets the thought go when he realizes it’s not the right time for it; it’ll never be the right time for it.

 

-

 

No matter how closely Athos’ eyes track Aramis, he finds nothing hinting at difficulty of movement or stiffness, and after a night of kneeling and then basically being mauled he shouldn't be able to swing and turn and parry like that. The happy greeting Aramis yells at him when he spots Athos also goes a long way in reassuring Athos that everything is fine.

It’s blatantly obvious Aramis isn’t out of breath, not really challenged by the new recruit, while the recruit himself is struggling to keep up. Aramis’ movements are fluid; he’s dexterous. He’s laughing, delighted, giving hints and pointing out strategies to the recruit, teaching him to the best of his abilities, and he looks absolutely carefree to the casual observer. All of that cements Athos in concluding ‘that night was nothing but a messed up dream’.

Porthos also notes the recruit’s waning strength and suggests Aramis take on a second opponent, and he offers himself, says, “That is, if you aren’t too scared to fight two opponents at once.”  
The wink he throws Aramis gives the comment away as the jest it is. Aramis, always up for a challenge, would have readily agreed to another opponent even if that opponent hadn’t been Porthos. Porthos’ offer is a true kindness to the new recruit. The man is clearly at the end of his rope, almost exhausted from the looks of him, and this gives him a break, lets him observe how to best get in under Aramis’ defenses by watching an expert, and Athos leans back and continues watching the three of them until the recruit begs off not long after and moves to the side of the field to concentrate on watching only.

Athos has felt a pressing need to ensure Aramis’ health and wellbeing ever since he started remembering that night, even though by all accounts Aramis should be in optimal condition, given that nothing untoward happened that night; nothing more than Athos being rude and Aramis humoring him by actually following his order to kneel when Athos was in such a dark mood. Athos should have no further cause for worry, because Aramis’ friendly greeting spoke of no offense taken, of all imaginable slights forgiven. No need to worry any longer. Athos left no bruises on Aramis.

Or did he?

The one thing that opens the door to a wave of doubt to come crashing in again is the state of Aramis’ tunic, and Athos is so sick of this seesaw, so sick of not being _sure_.

The problem is that Aramis' tunic is tied close, ropes done up to the very base of his throat, and the usual bow has not come undone even with the proper workout he’s now going through, flushed and out of breath. Porthos has always bested each and every one of the musketeers at hand-to-hand combat. This is his domain, and Porthos will win. It’s only a matter of time.

Athos can’t get a good look at where he bit Aramis in those scattered dream-fragments he remembers, but even though Aramis has worked up a proper sweat now, the fabric of his shirt is woven too tightly for it to become see-through, and it’s still properly tied when normally the knot of the bow would have already loosened from this much moving around, this much being pulled at. No simple bow can withstand a training this long; a training with Porthos.

Athos is sure nothing happened the night before yesterday. He’s _mostly_ sure. Still, his fingers itch to check for himself. Surely this shirt situation is a major deviation from the norm and that warrants a follow-up inspection, but Athos can’t just demand Aramis take off his garments.

He suppresses a shiver at that thought.

Aramis is still joking, moving slower now, but still careful, efficient, and Porthos laughs, swings his arm, and Aramis is prepared for that and blocks the hit in time, but he wasn’t prepared for Porthos’ foot swiping at his own, bringing him down to a half crouch, and Porthos kneels before him for better leverage and has one hand on Aramis throat before Aramis can get up or defend himself, a secure hold that marks him the clear victor, while he brings his other hand up to gently place it right over Aramis’ heart, right where the lacing begins and trails up to the bow that still holds steady.

Porthos hasn’t lost his slime when he asks, “We done here?” and Aramis looks at Porthos like he’s the sun and smiles right back before he tips his head in playful deference and answers, “Yes, Porthos. You win. Now, how about we find something to eat?”

This Aramis is nothing like the Aramis from Athos' dream.

 

-

 

When they get back that day from a minor errand, Athos and Aramis are the last to see to their horses and the last to leave the stables.

Athos spots an opportunity and decides to take it before he can convince himself otherwise, before he talks himself out of it or loses his chance, and before he manages to drive himself crazy by not-knowing.

Confronting Aramis now would be ideal, Athos thinks, because right now there’s nobody here but them and the horses, and the worst that could happen is Athos irritating Aramis with his bizarre behavior when he asks to check Aramis for injuries. Perhaps Aramis will get mad at Athos being invasive, or maybe Aramis will be no more than mildly curious, or confused.

Athos not saying sorry for being rude doesn’t seem to have angered Aramis in any way at all, so Athos randomly checking Aramis for injuries should be okay, even though there is no actual reason for him to check Aramis for injuries.

Today’s errand had involved no skirmishes and Athos was present at Aramis’ training earlier this morning, too. He saw Aramis training a fresh recruit who didn’t stand a chance at seriously hurting him, and then fighting with Porthos, who would never seriously hurt Aramis for entirely different reasons – training accidents do happen, but Porthos and Aramis, while not exactly holding back when going up against each other, do take particular care to avoid doing too much of a damage.

Additional observations have brought him no closer to a satisfactory, steady conclusion as to what happened that night, and Athos has no choice but to directly confront Aramis after all, because Aramis shows no signs of sore muscles or bruises in the way he moves, and his behavior is no different from before, either, but the tied strings on Aramis’ tunic are still fixed in a neat bow that is mocking Athos and stabbing him with niggling spears of doubt. When they were out earlier, not even the warm, stuffy air of the inn they’d stopped at could make Aramis open his tunic.

Aramis is a step ahead of him as they walk through the rows of occupied stables to the sound of content and tired horses softly whickering and rustling the straw. “Aramis,” Athos calls out to him and reaches out to Aramis’ shoulder. The lightest pressure of Athos’ hand makes Aramis slow down, then stop when Athos stops, too.

“What is it?” Aramis asks and turns to him. Athos immediately finds all of Aramis attention on himself.

“Will you let me –,” Athos doesn’t finish posing the question he meant to ask, maybe because he’s afraid that he won’t be granted permission if he asks, maybe because the placement of his hand on Aramis shoulder distracts him: it lies flat right on the spot where the mark would be, had Athos left one.

Athos wants to press his thumb in to see if Aramis might flinch now, with direct pressure applied, and Athos really _needs_ to take action. He can’t stand not knowing for a moment longer. He needs to find out what is real, and maybe then he can get back to the wonderful calm he felt when he woke up that morning, before he began to remember his dream and uncertainty drowned out the calm.

Aramis doesn’t flinch when Athos moves his thumb over the area he remembers biting, a broad stroke with solid downwards pressure.

However, Aramis gives himself away in the way he distinctly does _not_ react. He falls still even though he hadn’t been moving in the first place, and all of his attention is still centered on Athos, his eyes dark. Aramis’ eyes are always dark, Athos thinks, and the stables are dark as well, this late in the evening. He should have picked a place that’s better illuminated for this undertaking, and the thought of a brightly candlelit church with colored glass windows almost makes Athos laugh out loud.

Aramis is not smiling, but he regards Athos with an unparalleled intensity. Aramis seems simultaneously very calm and as if he’s brimming with tension. Aramis hasn’t moved away, but instead he slightly leans into Athos, which moves Athos into action again.

Athos takes another step forward and ends up right in front of Aramis, well within his personal space. He twists at the strings of the bow to get the lacing undone, hands brushing the delicate metal of Aramis necklace where it disappears under his tightly laced collar, warmed by his skin, and Athos realizes the reason for the bow not budging all day is the double knot tied over it, holding it fast.

When he’s undone the laces, Athos intends to pull the tunic away to get a good look at Aramis’ shoulder, at the place he remembers biting in his dream, but while Aramis stayed perfectly still and silent when Athos unlaced him, Aramis pulls in a sharp breath and stops Athos‘ hand with one of his own when Athos moves to pull the collar of the tunic aside.

Athos keeps his hand where it is and lets his other hand fall down to hold Aramis at the waist, ready to stop him should Aramis make a move to pull away, even though Aramis doesn’t pull away, and the Aramis from his dreams didn’t pull away, either, and Athos lets himself think of the scratches he remembers, the memories of his own fingers digging into trembling skin, his hands pressed close in a futile effort to quieten a body shaking with fine tremors.

Aramis is not trembling right now.

Athos watches Aramis watching him, and they’re at a stalemate, both rigidly frozen. Athos waits, patiently now, almost at his goal, until Aramis apparently sees something in Athos eyes – Athos doesn’t know what – that makes him decide to give in.

Aramis lets his hand fall from Athos’ and lets Athos pull his tunic aside.

And there it is, in stark contrast: evidence, proof, an accusation.

A deep, colorful bruise.

Athos can see the distinct marks his teeth left, a big, oval ring of indents around a body of multiple colors, blue and red and purple all blending together, and Athos remembers biting and sucking, remembers languidly, leisurely creating that bruise. 

For a moment the world goes quiet, like Athos has been submerged under water; Athos hears nothing but his pulse in his ears and feels light, like he’s floating. 

He feels strong.

It must have hurt Aramis a lot, Athos ponders, and he doesn’t know what to do with that, or with the fact that that thought definitely gets him very interested very quickly. 

He finds he can’t look away from the bruise, and he wants to touch it again, has to touch it again, needs to see himself touching it directly, and the realization that his dream had really happened all along makes him dizzy.

His hand’s still resting next to the bruise, holding the tunic aside. It’s clenched in his fist, now, and he didn’t even notice doing that. He lets the tunic go and moves his hand to the bruise, lets it hover over the darkened skin for a while to feel the heat emanating from it, and then he slowly lowers his hand.

He lets his fingers follow the edges of the bruise in a feather-light contact, lets them cross the line where bruise gives way to unblemished skin and marvels at the difference in temperature, and at the fact that such a small thing can make such a palpable difference.

He’s had his own fair share of bruises, and he’s touched other bruises before, but this one is different.

This one is his. He did this.

Athos’ fingers unerringly return to the bruise and brush over it while Aramis is still tense, but lets Athos explore. Athos, emboldened by Aramis’ silent acquiescence, rests his fingers in the middle of the bruise and then abruptly presses them right into the center.

Aramis makes a startled noise and jerks, perhaps involuntarily, perhaps with intent, Athos doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes his hand hold on more tightly to Aramis’ waist, as if it has a mind of its own, to hold him steady as his other hand presses into the bruise, and the noise of blood rushing through Athos’ ears picks up as he thinks about the bruises that may yet be hidden beneath Aramis’ tunic, covering purplish-blue dots that perfectly match Athos’ fingers.

He lifts his fingers from the bruise for a heartbeat, only to press down again in the next, and he absentmindedly registers Aramis making another noise that sounds like surprise and, perhaps, relief, but most of his mind is on Aramis skin. It’s warm, notably warmer than it was in his fuzzy memories, and the skin is so very hot on and just around the considerable bruise Athos left on Aramis, and whenever Athos lifts his fingers up, the bright colors on the area right under and just around his fingers fade before blooming up again, springing back to life.

Aramis still doesn’t move away; if anything, he leans into Athos even more. 

The space between them is infinitesimal. 

Athos looks up to make sure that nothing is amiss. He wants to see how matters are where Aramis is concerned, if Aramis is readying himself to leave or if he’s willing to tolerate Athos’ attention a while longer. He finds Aramis with his head tilted back slightly, observing Athos with half-closed eyes, pupils blown wide and cast into shadow by the sweep of his lashes, and the only word Athos can use to describe Aramis’ expression is ‘blissful’.

This, right here, is exactly what Athos wants.

There’s a loud crash outside, near the door, like a barrel falling from a cart and rolling away. The noise outside picks up, but nobody enters the stables.

Athos steps back and rights Aramis clothes with quick, confident tugs, laces him up again and ties the ends of the string into a little bow that he secures with an additional knot.

Athos lets his hand land on Aramis’ shoulder again and imagines that he can feel the heat radiate from the bruise through the fabric. He lets out heavy breath.

He says, “I did that,” and means for it to be a question, but he knows now, knows for certain that he definitely did it, and he feels bold and in control and giddy and powerful, and it doesn’t sound so much like a question, but more like a statement.

Like something he’s proud of.

Aramis recognizes it as the question it was supposed to be and swallows before he answers, “Yes,” sounding raw, and it doesn’t sound like an accusation in the least. 

It sounds reverent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the tags to include Porthos/Aramis, but in this chapter that pairing is nothing more than hints and maybes.


End file.
